


The Worst Thing You've Never Done

by schizoauthoress



Category: The Simpsons
Genre: Adultery, F/M, Implied/Referenced Cheating, POV Minor Character, god Jacques is a skuzzball
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-02
Updated: 2017-06-02
Packaged: 2018-11-07 23:11:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11069046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/schizoauthoress/pseuds/schizoauthoress
Summary: Jacques is waiting for Marge at Fiesta Terrace.  She's late.[Set during "Life on the Fast Lane" and "Homer's Night Out" (Season One, Episodes 9 &10)]





	The Worst Thing You've Never Done

As agreed, I wait in my apartment for Marge to come to me. It is important that it is done this way. There is an art to seducing a woman like Marge -- one must be aware of the societal pressures she feels, even if one does not care for the rules she finds so important. And one must lead where she would not dare go, but never push too hard. Marge must be the one to take the final step into taboo -- there can be no coercion on this point.

I have met many women like Marge Simpson in my time. They are beautiful and neglected, passion denied. They want so desperately to be loved and appreciated, and that is what I can offer these women -- for a while. I am not a man predisposed to long-term commitment.

What I am predisposed to is the pursuit of beautiful women , and conquest of the same. I also get bored quite easily, and I've learned the hard way the importance of communicating the fleeting nature of my trysts before the final step is taken.

Thanks to that insufferable Helen -- and Marge's own excitable character, admittedly -- I wasn't able to bring it up during our brunch. Unfortunately, this means that Marge may drive all the way to Fiesta Terrace and change her mind once she hears my conditions. I have no interest in being anything but a short-term escape from her boorish husband -- the one she hates to admit she has.

In any event, some chilled champagne should serve nicely. Of course, I would prefer it as a prelude to other activities, but it can also be a refined farewell to Marge. There is no reason to spoil any pleasant memories she may hold of me.

****

I check my watch for the third time since our agreed rendezvous passed. She is more than an hour late. I sigh. It is likely that she will not come at all.

Poor, darling Marge. I had hoped she would be more daring than this.

I leave the champagne where it is for now. There is a possibility that something has demanded her attention concerning those children she sometimes mentions. (It is obvious that, for all that her marriage stifles her, she loves her children.) But I turn off the stereo, and the softly playing modern jazz gives way to silence.

I have no right to Marge Simpson, or any woman like her. I must remember that. I have had fantasies about her, and she may have had fantasies about me. But nothing about that is a promise.

I am not entitled to Marge's afffection. That is the mistake in her husband's thinking, after all --- that he has her and he needs do no more to keep her. Undeserving fool! And yet, he may still have her loyalty. The thought makes me laugh a little.

Loyalty! A rare commodity, especially among these beautiful, neglected women I favor -- but not unheard of. I am not irresistable, no matter how much allure I project.

I check my watch again. I'll give her another fifteen minutes.

****

Marge does not knock on my front door until weeks have gone by. It is our agreed upon hour, which I realize when I see her standing in the hallway. I wonder if that was by design on her part.

I smile as I inform her, "You're late."

She frowns, but only asks, "May I come in?"

"Of course, my dear," I reply, stepping aside to allow her entrance. As she passes, I continue softly, "You are always welcome in my home."

Marge flinches at that, but her tone is light as she replies, "Thank you, Jacques."

I shut the door, but leave it unlocked. Something tells me that Marge is in a particularly skittish mood. She may require a quick exit, and I have no desire to hamper her, if that is the case. I do despise ugly scenes.

When I turn to face her, Marge is wringing her hands together. So nervous! I move away from the door -- along the wall, toward my couch, coming no closer to her. She does not recognize right away that I am giving her space, but when she does, some of the tension in her shoulders melts away.

She takes a breath, and then... "I can't see you anymore!"

I raise an eyebrow. 'Can't', not 'don't want to', I muse. Aloud, I say, "I will miss your company, Marge, but if you've found another bowling instructor, I understand completely."

She looks completely flummoxed, and I realize she's second-guessing my intentions. It feels a bit crass, but in order to ensure she gets the message, I follow up with a suggestive wink paired with a slight waggle of my eyebrows. That banishes her confusion, but in its place is the frown again, fiercer now.

"Don't..." she stammers for a moment, then says sharply, "Don't joke about this, please! What we were planning to do, Jacques -- it's wrong!"

"Because of the promises you made, to your Homer?" I ask, striving to stay calm, and not let my personal distaste for the institution of marriage show overmuch. She startles at the name, and a hard smirk twists my mouth. "Yes, dear Marge, I figured that out quite easily. I know he is a man, and not just the name of your bowling ball. I understand why you feel you can't take this any further."

"This?" Marge asks, voice trembling.

"The attraction between us, my dear."

I have miscalculated. The way her eyes flash with anger lets me know.

"I'm not your dear!" Marge cries. Her voice cracks on the next sentence, "And I won't... I won't be your 'Princess Kashmir', either!"

It is my turn to be confused. I repeat, "Princess Kashmir? Who is Princess Kashmir?"

Marge brings her hands up to her mouth. She likely did not mean to let that name slip out.

"So," I say coolly, "Your husband has a wandering eye. And perhaps... wandering hands? _That_ is what gives you pause, Marge?"

"He almost did it," Marge says, in a voice scratchy with unshed tears. "And I feel terrible. What we almost did is no better. I don't want to be that kind of person. It's wrong."

Ah, almosts. The bane of my existence. I shrug. 

"I've never asked for anything a woman was unwilling to give -- right or wrong be damned." I can't help the smile as a thought comes to me. "Or is that the problem? You fear damnation, Marge?"

"You don't get to look down on me!" Marge declares. "A man like you! You knew I was married -- you just admitted it -- and you're still trying to talk me into sin!"

I laugh. "You misunderstand me, Marge. I'm merely curious about your motivations." I gesture to the front door. "You may leave, if you wish. The door is not locked."

She takes another breath, gathering herself, and glares at me. If I had less self control, I might accept the challenge in that heated look, and take her into my arms. As it is, I sit down the arm of the couch and simply watch her.

She makes an annoyed noise in the back of her throat and grits out, "Goodbye, Jacques."

I wait until her hand is on the doorknob to reply, saying, "I do hope, Marge, that you will at least keep bowling."

Her back goes stiff, I observe with satisfaction. That means she heard the invitation in my voice. She says 'no' now, but she may regret it. I doubt her husband will change -- men like that, self-centered and thoughtless -- so rarely do. When he hurts her again, I will probably still be here. And she'll remember how I've made her feel.

She doesn't reply; she pulls open my door and flees the apartment. I do regret seeing her go, but there will always be more women like Marge.

**Author's Note:**

> “He almost did it” is what Marge, with her guilty conscience, believes. It is not necessarily true. (In fact, it isn’t, in the case of Princess Kashmir. Later episodes, and other women... maybe it is.)


End file.
